Riders: Clandestine Axiom
by BooksbyLucas
Summary: Of all the horrors mankind has unleashed upon itself, it is now in the midst of its greatest yet. A young teenage boy, Lance, is on the run from the law for reasons unknown and has joined the World EX Grand Prix. His goal is a simple one: to take first place. However, a dark force looms ahead and threatens not only him, but the safety of countless other lives.
1. Prologue

Riders - Clandestine Axiom

Prologue

Play the tape.

Yes, sir.

A chair squeals as it is relieved of its earlier position.

An old man releases tension from his weary joints as his dependence is placed upon the earlier mentioned chair.

A click.

Interviewer: So, young man, who are you?

Interviewee: I already told you, I'm Lance. Would you mind telling me your name? Or is common courtesy too straight-forward for the army?

Interviewer: Go ahead, waste your wit on me. It's not like I've got any pride for you to take.

Lance: Most likely because –

Speed it up to where they actually start talking about the important things, could you?

Yes, sir.

The pitch of the playback spikes as time is wondrously turned forward nearly five minutes.

The button is released, and time sinks back into its original state of being.

Interviewer: Kid, you think you've got everything planned out, don't you?

Lance: Think so? I'd like to avoid cliché; but the truth is I know I've got it planned out, and I'm several steps ahead of you.

Interviewer: Then tell me, Lance, where do The Divine Wings rest right now?

Lance: Not where you think they are. The tables have turned, and power now rests in the hands of those who waited for it. Unfortunately, these people who waited are waiting to use their new-found power to cause pain and devastation for their own selfish motives. I'm the only one who knows this, and yet I'm locked up in a government compound. Is that what you were looking for?

Interviewer: But where is The Diving Wings?

Lance: Eden has fallen.

Interviewer: Lance, I'm losing my patience with you right now.

Lance: Funny, that's the third time you've said that now. And since life operates in exponents, I can only imagine how angry you are right now.

Interviewer: This isn't funny. You need to grow up right now, and tell the adults who can handle this situation where The Divine Wings is.

Lance: Remember how I said I was always a few steps ahead of you?

Interviewer: Yes, and what about it?

Lance: Volatilis recubo.

Interviewer: What -

An Explosion

And that's it?

Yes, sir.

The wheels in an old man's head turn; rusted from age, corroded and worn away like bone rubbing against bone. Provided he was still in his youth, the answer would be as clairvoyant as the sun in the sky.

An old man sits.

An old man thinks.

Your orders, sir?  
An old man sits.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

You would have been fooled, provided you had the opportunity to relinquish the sight of the racers and look up at the sky. The sun shone down upon the stadium with a warm hue alighting everything with a golden glow. Such a bright and jubilant day could only lead to more of the same –is humanity's logic. But nature is not human, and so it has been used time and time again in fictitious stories of old and new that nature is a centerpiece for foreshadowing.

But this is not fiction.

This is as real as the air you now intake. As real as the monitor you now stare at. As real as the soul that resides within your very core.

Above was Arcadia, to put it simply. The time was such a joyous one it was hard for a conscious being to feel anything but bliss. It was the birth of something that would grow and branch into something even more mature and beautiful than it already was; and this hubbub was all centered around the biennial World EX Grand Prix.

Below was not only a different atmosphere, but a different mindset. Half of all avoided eye-contact with each other as any look to another linked the two together as mortal enemies who will engage in less-than-safe intercourse on the racetrack.

The other half was those who let physicality replace the function of their brain. Brutality and malignancy radiated from said people. It was often difficult for others to see that these beings were, in fact, human, as the site of their creation often was received with grimacing and revulsion.

This was the human side, as there was another side.

A teenage youth with long spiked tufts on the back of his head turned in the opposite direction of those around him. The remains of a has-been locker was his place of storage. This caused him a great deal of discomfort because of not the quantity of his personal belongings, but the quality of them. Two red shoes with matching cuffs. A white band across the sides and a gold buckle that fastened the straps to the alloy of polyester and Kevlar, but this was not the key feature; the soles were. Hyper shock-resistant soles several centimeters thick. Over ten elements had gone into the making of the soles of these awe-inspiring shoes built for a master of movement.

But they were not for riding.

The teen looked down at the footwear he now dawned. More Kevlar than polyester at all, it was nearly impossible to walk in the shoes. They served their purpose of proper grip and conformant to a matching board.

As the last buckle on his shoe was set and locked into place, he turned. The sub-vista in front of him was not one to be adorned. Blue-gray lockers surrounded the room with a row of lockers in the middle. Not one locker had the proper safety features for a world-class professional athlete's possessions. Women found it necessary to drape towels across themselves in an effort to conceal what is their last true personal possessions. The other men were not as timid, but were not necessarily proud.

The basis of hatred began fuming in the youth's heart. He had adopted a sense of justice and heroism from early ages and had been revered as a hero and role model for nearly seventeen years at that point. He knew injustice when he felt just a slight pang of it, and at the time, he had truly felt it. The sight of those previously proud and brazen now scattered, picking up pieces of their former selves was enough to ruin his day; but years of mental strengthening and preparation had taught him anger was never the solution o problems. And yet, try as he might, he could extinguish the tiny ember of anger that yet resided within the centermost part of his whole.

Two worlds, but one arena. The uppermost part of the city was experiencing the best of times, whereas the lowermost part was experiencing the worst. But there is a middle ground. A young teen leans against the wall of a corridor leading into the illuminated stadium. His intelligence surpassed most, though he was not genius. His face remained stolid as the omnipotent light crept closer and closer to him. He was one to be feared, as he had found a middle-ground between the brutes and intellectuals. He used aggression to his advantage but made intelligent decisions about when to do so.

His ways were those that were desired by the fans in the rising stands. A bell rang ominously in the distance. Five minutes until the first event. He straightened. Any sort of lighting was good to the teen. Any single ray of light illuminated his black hair with the radiance of diamonds. He had been fortunate enough to receive large eyes with brown – almost gold – irises. His long straight nose and matching jaw had been one of his favorite features, giving him an edgy look that no matter what angle always made his features look straighter and almost box-like. The teen was of mainly of German descent, but he also had several other signs of Irish and Romanian in his facial features.

His boots squeaked lightly, as they hard hardly been broken in. His skinny jeans made light ruffling sounds if they were brought together. He was a strong, even-bodied young man. Larger than most – as well as stronger – he made quite the impression when he was the third onto the starting field, each stride he took making him more gallant than he was before. He took his stance, mounting his board beneath his right arm. His personal space began shrinking as others began to fill in.

But he did not falter.

He wasn't just physically stronger than most and mentally stronger as well. His background was not filled with grit or aggressive training. He was a teen with a simple background and had a simple agenda; although he shared this same agenda with everyone else at the starting point.

Once the count-down would start, it would be an all-out brawl between everyone. During the time of the count-down, they could take several steps backwards, and then begin running at the starting gate; however, they always ran the risk of running into an electric current placed in front of the starting gate. As the competitors had become more knowledgeable of the rules, they had realized there was no rule against picking up your opponents and throwing them into the current. The current was not strong enough to kill, but would send those who touched it into a state of confusion. Sponsors had acknowledged the lack of this rule as well, and supported those who did more of this, so to avoid someone's grabbing hands was always a difficult movement.

"Attention, attention!"

It took but a few moments for the stadium to become quiet. As the fans become mute, the emotions of the competitors rose into a fiery supernova.

"Welcome to the 3rd biannual World EX Grand Prix!" The voice of the announcer was youthful, happy, and filled with lies. "This will be an exciting event this year! Since it is our 3rd anniversary, and the welcome of anthropomorphisms!" The crowd did not react with the same frivolity it had when the announcer had first began speaking. The teen allowed himself a glance to his side. To his right was a female anthropomorphic bird who had been only known as Wave the Swallow. He turned his sights back to the starting gate. The words of the announcer became hazy as he submerged himself into the spirit of the game. His senses were more acute. Each movement from everyone around him was a roaring shockwave. The electric current crackled with delight as it knew it would be able to take the pride from another competitor.

The teen knew this. When he was in such a mental state, he could not be brought back for the longest of time. Vision narrowed to the point of a tunnel. Everything around him was unimportant, and therefore cast aside. He hadn't even noticed as everyone around him had begun fighting.

He remained in his position; unnerved. Time was an inconsequential force that only served to heighten his awareness.

The current disappeared.

His legs were a locomotive, appearing as simply two spinning objects as he ran for the race track. In a quick movement, he launched himself and connected his shoes to his airboard. Air hissed as his boots created a vacuum, interlinking him with the board in a more personal way than before.

An easy first, so far. His closest competitor was several yards behind him. The stadium provided little-to-no atmosphere and was more sharp turns than straightaways. He had modified his airboard – legally – and was able to make sharper turns than others simply by pulling a switch to the side he was leaning. It would open up a large portion of the airboard's side, allowing him to propel air through the other side, forcing him to turn at a more dramatic angle. He used his modified switch, and successfully rounded a ninety-degree corner. He needed not to turn to know that many of those following him had crashed into the wall. The air whipped past his face, flinging his hair to and fro. His green goggles helped him see through the oncoming slipstream. He merged, easily, and found that his merging was to his own personal profit. The tunnel was soon becoming dark, and if he had not seen the slipstream, he was sure he would have crashed. The additional speed was also useful, as up ahead was the beginning to an absurdly high peak. the angle was nearly ninety-degrees, save a few to keep the competitors from falling, and the teen felt gravity's forces upon his body.

His dared flash a glance at his wrist monitor, specially coded for himself so that he, and only he, could understand what was being displayed. After translation, it read ten G's. Deadly. His goggles flashed a sign into his retina displaying a triangle and an arrow, which meant 'jump'. Its timer started at ten, and counted down. At one, the youth dropped the end of his board so low to the ground he heard its shrewd cackle as he released. Everything appeared at a fraction of its normal speed. The flashes of cameras in the stands was blinding, as well as the lights focusing mainly on the teen.

_These games_, he thought. _Are they worth it?_

After his tenth flip in the air, he straightened his back, arched his legs forward and sent himself into a nose dive towards the next platform. He had but a mere five feet for failure. He scoffed at the odds. A masterful landing, matched with an expertly designed airboard provided him the best landing of all those following him.

As he shot downward at a new rate, he dared check once again. Twelve G's. He had but a few moments left before all blood left his head, as he began feeling faint. Struggling with his fingers, he tapped in code to see how much of the track was left. Five hundred feet. He would have to slow down, or surely he would lose consciousness for a few moments. Panic began creeping up his leg. It slowly ascended, capturing each part of his body until it was at the base of his neck. His mind stopped working, and his body took over. His legs reached down and kicked the board onto the track. Electric shocks were sent everywhere as the youth was launched many yards away from the track. While everyone else still flew downhill, the teen was launched forward. He heard a crash as his board slammed into one of the tall ridges providing advertisement.

The ground was menacingly close. Deciding life was better than winning, he reached for the chord in his pack and pulled. It, however, did not comply. He tugged once more, and realized it was jammed; he was then completely submerged in panic. As he was still suctioned to the board, it flew out from under him, his head inches from the sandy ground. He brought his legs down, in hopes that this would solve his problems. It did, somewhat, in the fact that it brought his head up enough to keep it from slamming into the ground. The board slammed onto the ground, completely out of power, and began spinning. His speed was dramatically being reduced, even after he had crossed the finish line. The track ahead continued, and he was gradually stopping. Eventually, he had completely stopped and was standing in the middle of the track. He turned around to see hazes shooting towards him. Maybe it was miracle, maybe not, but once more instinct took over and threw himself over the edge. rotating and twisting himself, he was face first at the edge. He gripped, with both hands, the edge; dangling over three thousand feet of nothingness. As the last racer crossed the finish line, he heaved himself up with the last of his strength. And no sooner had he done this that his body relieved him of his lunch he had earlier.

The youth rolled around in his own bile for nearly a minute before a medical team had come by.

"Sir, can you breathe?" "Are you alright?" "How many fingers do you see?" The teen shooed each medical person off.

"I'm fine. I just puked, that's all," he said. The medical staff bore shocked expressions. "What?" he asked.

"But…your arm…" pointed one person. The youth turned to his right arm to see that his collar bone protruded from his skin. Marrow and chips still lay in the folds of his red leather jacket. The medical team came to the teen's aid, this time with complete compliance.

"May we ask your name?" one medic asked. He struggled with his response, and eventually managed,

"Cane Toll."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Summer brings along fond memories of not only experiences, but things that we've learned. School can, and will, get in the way of our learning, and so it is imperative to do ourselves the favor of enjoying summer while we are yet young; such is the case with Lancelot, a young teenager, who only goes by Lance, whose only care is 'what will I do tomorrow'. Life is simple enough, never expecting much of him. Each day goes by listlessly as the one before. Lance lives life as a normal teenager; he spends time with friends, learns new things every day. He lives a generic human life. But a deep passion resides within him to do more than just live a normal life.

He looks at life as an unknown variable. His question that has not yet been answered is "Why are we here?" And his question is fair enough. It is a question that has pondered humanity for millennia. What is the meaning of life? Lance thinks about this every second he has. Each waking moment is another moment to ponder life's existence.

Lance is also an artist. He paints and draws with prodigious skill that not only surpasses others his own age, but could be ranked among those who have created masterpieces that will be enjoyed by each generation. Being forgotten is another fear of Lance's, as he knows that your name being lost amongst others only means that you lived a generic life that did not stand out.

Needless to say, Lance can be narcissistic.

Lance is a model student in school. Each assignment exceeds the standard of excellence. In his eight grade year he received a scholarship to the University of Arizona for reading and art, as well as a sports scholarship for swimming, as he is the captain and most valuable player on their team. He also builds and repairs cars for his father's automotive shop.

The last thing Lance does in his spare time is skateboard. Unlike his other activities, Lance is a terrible skater. He cannot maintain his balance on the board for more than one minute without needing to take a step onto the pavement. His classmates laugh and call him names. He has been labeled as 'The Genius Who Tried to Skate'. Most fifteen year-olds would crack under such peer pressure, but not Lance. Each student who makes fun of him is simply another fly that can be batted away with the flick of his wrist. And provided they don't, he knows he has the backing of his family, friends, and his own personal strength.

But he still does not know life's meaning, and this is his pitfall. He knows he is fortunate. He knows he is lucky, but the only thing he wants is the one thing he cannot have: the truth.

The setting is summer. The year is 2016. Society has progressed at a normal rate, as logic would suggest.

A lone Lance sits in his bed at eight o'clock. At the time, he is pondering what he could draw for his next upload to the Internet. His mind is a flurry with thoughts. He knows there are millions of things he could depict with paper and pencil, but knows there is so little time, and he must make the best of his drawings. Once again, this leads him to ponder life's meaning, which by this time he has grown weary of.

He let the pencil hit the ground. It clattered around on the floor until it landed underneath his bed. Lance stared at the ceiling until he had somewhat hypnotized himself. Shaking himself free of his trance, he turned to the clock. Only five minutes had passed since the last time he looked. He throws his paper across the floor and looks up once again. His ceiling had a design from the mid 1990's. Small dots were clustered on the ceiling. Sometimes he would stand and reach for these small bumps as a supplement to reaching for the stars.

Lance would have stood and done so, but he had grown bored of this activity as well. He was bored with life. And he was beginning to think life was growing bored of him as well.

But his left hand hummed. His eyes darted to the small ring. It had a new-aesthetic design to it. A few small lines slashed across its face, and in the center was a blue LED light. Its flashing was the obvious sign that someone wished to communicate with him.

Lance outstretched his hand as, without looking, he groped on his bedside table. Apple had once again owned the technological market with its brand new product, the iGlass. They were a pair of glasses – also a new-aesthetic design – and were basically an iPhone, but the user bore them on their face.

He brought his finger to the small button on the right side of the frame. With two clicks, a translucent face was projected into the youth's vision.

"Hey, Lance, what's up?"

"Nothing much. You?"

"Same. But hopefully, not for long." Lance grunted.

"T.J., dude, be sane. You'd be the first to get classy-smashed if you had the opportunity. And the last time I got into one of your lacquer plans I lost every penny I owned. By the way, I'm still waiting to get my cash back."

"That's harsh, man. I've never heard you refer to my plans as a 'lacquer plan'."

"You going out and buying euphoric substances to sell isn't that farfetched."

"Hey, what brings in the people brings in the money."

"Yeah, well thank God certain people haven't been arrested…yet." T.J. had been Lance's friend since before he could remember. His first conscious thought with T.J. had been when the two had moved next door, and even then Lance knew T.J. years before that. The two had formed an inseparable bond and had the relationship that was looked upon fondly at the time.

"Alright, what's your plan?" Lance asked.

"Yeah, that's my man! And don't worry, there's nothing 'questionably legal' about it, and –"

"T.J., what's the plan?"

"Uh, yeah…sorry. So you know old Mr. Hubbard across the street, right?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Well, he wants me to 'dispose of' his wife's cat. I guess the thing is over thirty years old. It also has worms, a severe case of arthritis, and they can't pay to have it…y'know, 'put down', and -."

"Wait, they want us to _kill their cat_?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" Lance arose from his bed and began pacing the floor. He had always hated movies for overusing morals and ethics as what drives a character, so he always tried to think little about them. Unfortunately, fate had decided against Lance's avoidance of this, as several times over he was brought upon questions of moral and humanity, and how he hated each one.

It was only a few months ago he was forced to decide a similar fate for his dog, whom he fondly named after his grandfather, Grover. Grover was cursed with a rare condition where his stomach would flip if he digested something of unhealthy proportions, whatever that meant. The doctor had not specified, and so innocently, Lance and his family had unwittingly brought their dog to his knees with a simple overdose of dog food.

Once in the emergency room at the veterinarian's office, the doctor had provided Lance with two options. The first, and most morally righteous, was to allow Grover to fall asleep forever. The second, the not-so morally righteous option, was to perform a surgery with which came a hefty fee, as well as odds not in favor of Grover's survival, and provided he _did_ survive, the requirement to take three pills per day.

Feeling rotten at the time, Lance agreed on the first. His parents made an attempt to seem disappointed in Grover's leave, but they did a poor job of it, as they were clearly gratified that they would no longer be mandated to pay vet fees anymore.

"So are you in, or are you gonna Bin Laden this one?" The question floated errantly in the air, adding extra weight to Lance's atmosphere. Once again, he was dumbstruck by questions of morality. At last, Lance turned to his friend and said,

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Rad, dude! Oh, by the way, could you grab a beer? Apparently the cat is pretty picky about what she eats, so he one day gave her beer, and magically, she just ate whatever he told her to eat."

"Aww man, would my dad be okay with that?"

"He'd only have a problem if you got caught."

"I guess so." Lance brought his arms to his chest and folded them.

"Oh, I almost forgot…could you also supply the poison?"

"My God, dude, you serious?"

"Where am I going to get poison? It's not like the local drug store is just going to sell me rat poison at eight o'clock!" Lance groaned possibly too loudly for his own good. He knew he risked his parents hearing him up in his room, and so he continued on with his conversation more clandestinely.

"Alright, I'll grab some motor oil from the shop."

"Great. Meet at my place in fifteen minutes. Okay?"

"Yep." If only a mere moment had been eradicated from time, the following four weeks would not have existed the way they did. As Lance's finger was millimeters from the disconnect button, T.J. interjected,

"Wait!" Flustered, Lance harped,

"What could you _still_ want?"

"Why don't you grab us some beers too? I mean, we _are_ fifteen, I'll be sixteen in a few days..." Lance's nerves were at their highest, and even though it was mostly a rare occasion, he was beginning to become ornery with T.J.

"Yeah, whatever dude. I'll be there in fifteen with the beers and motor oil. You got the cat already?"

"Yeah, see you, dude." Lance said his goodbye and thrust his iGlasses off of his head. Blood circulated throughout his head as his fingers gently massaged his temples. The clock bore holes in his head as he forced himself not to look. The wall ahead of him was simple royal blue and white striped wallpaper, the colors of the school sports team. The wall was plain. It was simple. Lance thrust himself upwards, circulating blood once more throughout his body. Rotating, he turned to the window. Docilely, he brought the window up, providing extra caution so as not to arise a squeal from the rusted window. Lance crawled through the window, also being careful to lower the window to conceal his leave from any passerby. The tree behind him outreached an arm to provide him a safe transit to the ground. Lance jumped to the tree, shimmied downwards, and dropped a few feet to the ground. Anyone who would notice him would see that he did this action masterfully, as if he had memorized it.

He wasted no time as he darted through the night to his father's auto shop. As he approached the front door, his gaze was not on the handle, but the mat. Underneath, as usual, was the key to the door. A snicker came across Lance's face as he unlocked the door. An odor of oil mixed with gas greeted him upon entry and only grew stronger as the door closed. The moon shone brightly through the four panes on the window, casting four long pieces of paper across the floor. But the clear window of the refrigerator radiated with brilliance. He needed not look where he was going, as Lance knew precisely where everything was. A step here, a step there, and he was face to face with the refrigerator. He counted, ten beers. Lance grabbed the first three and stuffed them into his bag, then reset the location of the other seven, so they were sparsely laid out on the rack.

The last task on his agenda was to find a case of motor oil. It was not the problem of finding it, but combining it with a beer. His left hand came into contact with an open bottle of Pennzoil, grabbing it and shoving it into his bag. Once again, memorization was key to his leave of the shop. Cool night air reentered his lungs as the door behind him shut. Though he was a mechanic, he had yet to grow fond of the smell of gasoline.

His watch flashed.

He pulled his eyes from the beautiful moon to his LED wristwatch to find that, to his dismay, he was several minutes late. He dropped to the ground, his hands fumbling with a beer and oil cap. He was no chemist, but his carefulness with the portion of oil into the beer would impress even the most highly advanced in the field of chemistry. He brought the beer to his nose, sniffed, and added just a few more drops of the volatile substance. While running, he thrust all the contents together into the bag which he flung over his left shoulder. In a quiet run, he sprinted across the yard to his bike which he promptly picked up and began pedaling down the road in one fluent motion.

A lone teenager stood in a driveway. His body superseded his surroundings, standing at nearly six feet. A combination of long and thick clothing draped from his body. Nestled deeply in his chest was a ball composed of white fluff and some alien fluid. His already daunting figure increased as Lance neared him. Finally, at the foot of the driveway, T.J. acknowledged lance's presence and said,

"Hey Lance, you ready?"

"Yeah, that's the cat?" T.J.'s folded arms opened up, revealing the mass of fur. The creature barely resembled a cat. Age had not been kind to the old tom. Its ears were merely shreds of skin, its arms were lumps from many ripe years of arthritis, and fat seemed to claim every inch of space of the body. Lance would have wished for the cat to be put down anyway, as any onlooker could see the cat was miserable and found life no longer worth living.

"I think I'm a little more willing to get rid of this cat now. What do you think?"

"I was walling the first moment I laid eyes on it too. You brought the extra beers, right?" Typical T.J.

"Yeah,"

"Beer me." Lance needed not to even look at his bag. He grabbed the top beer and threw it in T.J.'s direction, who caught it with the swiftness of a football jock. T.J.'s arm was soon rendered a cradle for the cat as he fumbled with the cap. He lifted the golden drink to his lips and allowed it to drop down into his system.

"Damn, that's good. I never knew that beer had that sort of oily flavor to it, did you?"

"Dude, I don't drink beer. You think I'd know?"

"You soon will. Now come on, we've got to kill this cat."

The two rode tandem to Jones Park. It was a simple enough ride spanning only a half of a mile. If it were normal conditions, T.J. would have been talking Lance's ears to death; but given it was so late, they both thought better of this decision and remained in solitude.

Once at the park, T.J. revealed a bowl he had been hiding in his sweatshirt pocket. Sarcastically, Lance said,

"You just think of everything, don't you?"

"You've just got to ask for it, man."

"Which I didn't."

"Well believe it or not, I put some thought into this and grabbed it, figuring it'd be easier to feed the cat from a bowl than from an actual bottle."

"Now if only you applied that to school."

"Applied what?"

"Thinking." With the wave of his hand, T.J. had batted Lance's words away as if they had no meaning.

"Just give me the freaking booze, will you?" Lance tossed T.J. the bottle which he had placed in the side pocket. As the cap was taken off, Lance coughed loudly.

"Alright, you cat, drink up." T.J. said arising as the cat scurried as quickly as its small, stumpy legs would carry it. Only minutes passed by before the cat desired more to drink. The bottle was soon emptied, and so was the bowl.

"Christ, you'd think this cat would, like, _die_ wouldn't you?"

"Like I've said before, alcohol is one of those things I don't know much about. I mean, it's not like they teach us that stuff in school."

The grass made a soft patting sound as T.J. walked across to the center of the field of grass.

"Goddamn, we don't get many nights like this. We bitch about it being too cold for six months of the year, and spend the other three bitching about how hot it is."

"You should be a philosopher, because that's probably the wisest thing I've ever heard anyone in Eloy say."

"Naw, man! I'm serious. Just look at the stars. There's Orion. And that's Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Canus Major, and Minor. I could go on all night."

"So the one time you pay attention in class is when it's about stuff that's not important?"

"The stars are important tools, man. You see right above, that big bright shining star?" Lance responded 'yes'. "That's Polaris. It's zenith, right above us, and is the only star in the night that doesn't move. You know why that's useful?" Lance sighed.

"No, please educate me why." Crickets.

"Uh…well, I don't exactly remember why, but –" The two broke into laughter and spent the next few minutes trying to end their fit of frivolities.

"Hey man, what do you say that you and me just sleep under the stars tonight?"

"Is it worth the mosquito bights?

"Tonight of all nights, it is." An dark canvas was dotted with an innumerable amount of white and yellow dots. The crickets sounded in harmony with all other sounds of nature. A gentle breeze from the North crept up and kissed Lance gently upon the cheek and left as swiftly as it had come.

"Yeah man," Lance said. "Let's do it." He readied his phone to wake them from their slumber at dawn, whereupon they would leave for home and present the old man with the cat. They talked of things that mattered little in a world of importance. The both of them found their own futures daunting, neither knowing what exactly they hoped to achieve. Both minds chanced for greatness, but knew that in a world such as theirs, the odds were building blocks, constantly stacking up and shielding them from a bright future. At last T.J. had been rendered unconscious, whether it be the beer or fatigue that caused this, Lance would never know. Soon enough, blood flow decreased to a level at which activity was difficult, and so gave in to the oncoming slumber that awaited him. The universe symphonized a perfect piece of sights, sounds, and senses as the stars told stories of millennia ago, the crickets sang him a lullaby of dynamic proportion, and the weather seemed to have read his mind for what his preferred temperature would be. The world was perfect. Life was perfect. His eyelids were pounds heavier than they should have been, and Lance succumbed to their desire to ease themselves, and thus was the end of a perfect night.

"Hey T.J., T.J., wake up," said Lance. T.J. had been known for having a head thicker than his fists, but it was new to Lance that his ears were just as thick. T.J.'s body lay contorted into a fetal position.

"T.J., dude, get up. We've only got a couple minutes to get back! Dude!" A shove to anyone as hard as Lance gave T.J. would have shocked them as much as ten volts. T.J. lay still. The gears turned, but to no avail, until at last the light bulb in his head took to an electric current. The beer had been pulled from its position in the sack faster than the eye could see. Lance scoured the entire surface of the bottle from top to bottom. He turned it, and to his horror, found two trails of black running down the top. Lance's neck snapped towards the cat's direction. Standing there, shaking itself was a small puff of fur, which was followed by an innocent 'mew'.

As miniscule as the sound uttered by the cat, It had hit him with the strength of a thousand bullets. He turned to his friend. His head was angled to a point at which the fleshiest part of his neck was visible. The jugular vein stood out from the rest, tempting Lance to feel it. First his index finger, then his middle finger. Before he knew it, his entire right limb was reaching for the prominent feature. His heart pounded, and he hoped he would find a heart pounding in rhythm with his.

An empty silence.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

"Holy shit," escaped Lance's lips. "His first beer…and I gave it to him."

The cat. It was imperative that he find the cat. He jumped to his standing position, thrashing about wildly searching for the cat. He was not to be found.

"Oh shit…shit…goddamn it, where the hell is that stupid-ass cat?" He could not recall the last time he had cursed so much in a single sentence.

The next few minutes were spent by him flailing about in misery and desperation. He was radiating victimization and knew it. Family lineage had been tainted with poison, as he was the first of his family's history to commit murder. He was ashamed and had right to be. Thoughts swam through his head, constantly banging against his skull to be heard. He threw himself into his thoughts, and by random, chose the most logical one: Run, and never look back. And this was what he did.

Though Lance was not there later that day, several remnants of him stayed. Several pieces of hair and his fingerprints remained as a constant reminder of who the culprit was. Few missed T.J., as he was considered more of an outcast at school and to the public. On the other hand, Lance was missed with a passion that outweighed most. The apple certainly did not fall far from the tree, as his mother and father were both intelligent and knew well enough they would not see Lance, if at all ever again.

Eloy knew it was an accident, but the law, not being human, did not know of Lance's innocence in his endeavor. Charged with both manslaughter and underage drinking, jail would have been his only option after being sentenced.

Was it wise for him to leave; that is the question. Some days he would ponder this more than his question of life. The future can only tell whether his decision was correct, and so to his disliking, he has to wait to see the truth.


End file.
